


whenever you're in trouble ( won't you stand by me )

by dormant_bender



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Music, Mild Smut, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Movie(s), Romance, Scars, Short One Shot, Spoilers, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 15:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10789044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: When the night has comeAnd the land is darkAnd the moon is the only light we'll seeNo I won't be afraidOh, I won't be afraidJust as long as you stand, stand by mePeter deals with the aftermath of the events he has just endured. [major spoilers]





	whenever you're in trouble ( won't you stand by me )

**Author's Note:**

> So I just wrote this and roughly edited it, but if you see any mistakes, just know they're my own and I'll probably go back and double-check hella soon. Also, yes. Spoilers. If you've seen the movie and the tags about who's mentioned, you can figure out who it's about. 
> 
> Enjoy ? x

  
  


Losing the walk-man was on the top three list of things that had left the brunet feeling lost, like he had found himself on a distant planet with no means of escaping. Everything he seemed to love ended up destroyed in one way or another, which left him quietly resting upon his bunk, staring up into the black nothingness of the space up above him.

  


All he had left of his mother had been the walk-man, the one his "father" had turned to dust before his very eyes. The only man he had ever known as a father-figure, well—He had sacrificed himself as a martyr in order to save him. A selfless action that he would never forget, the image of his still, immobile face forever singed at the back of his mind. 

  


Fingers fiddle absently with the Zune device he had been given hours earlier, not once had he operated the thing nor plucked in the earbuds that accompanied it. Peter wasn't even certain he would be able to enjoy the sound of music anymore, not after all that had happened. It seemed the only family he had left were the Guardians, as dysfunctional as they all may be, but family nonetheless. 

  


Seconds pass like that, aimlessly toying with the headphones, before finally placing one in each ear and attempting to relax upon his back. He glances at the screen, silently reading the names of the songs that he skips until one title captures his attention. It appeared to have some promise to it if the name was anything to go by.

  


Deep bass thumps harshly against his eardrums as it begins to play, and he almost rips the earphones out of his ears at the sound of it. "I can't believe that asshole destroyed my walk-man and good music along with it," murmurs the man who allows the song 'E.T.' by 'Katy Perry' to continue on regardless; it gave him something else to focus on, at least. 

  


What he doesn't notice from his position on the bed is the lurking form of an assassin hovering by the ajar door. There she stands, arms crossed tightly across her chest, lips poked out into a small frown. Dark eyes are narrowed in concern, fingers drumming anxiously against her bicep, before she finally pushes out of the door-frame but not before knocking on the steel door first to make herself known to the oblivious male.

  


Peter curses sharply, snagging the plugs out of his ears roughly, hissing at the pain it caused before swiftly pausing the song and wrapping the cord around the small device. "Oh, hey." He pauses, runs a shaky hand throughout his shortly-cropped locks. "Been creepin' there long or—?"

  


" _Peter_ ," addresses the female in a tender tone, one that someone would use in speaking to a wounded animal.

  


"Oh jeez. Not you, too." Peter maneuvers his legs onto the side of the bed, bare feet audibly smacking upon the floor beneath him. He buries his face within his hands, exhaling deeply. "Don't tell me you're here to Oprah Winfrey me, I already told Drax I'm fine."

  


Gamora pauses mid-step as she approaches the bed, arms still crossed sternly before her. Onyx lips are pursing together as she contemplates her next words, deciding to be delicate with the situation at hand. Her dark eyes study his demeanor, clearly distressed about the past events, to which she had expected—all of them had, honestly, and had talked about in hushed murmurs when the male had wandered off to do who-knows-what on whatever planet they had landed on.

  


Despite her initial hesitancy, the woman mobilizes and finds herself plopping upon a cluttered desk full of little gadgets and gizmos. She has the decency to shift the items to the side before she crushed anything, being mindful of Peter's things. For a moment, she sits there, one leg crossed over the other, as she allows the thoughtful silence to drift on.

  


"We are all worried about you," she begins in that same, soothing tone she had used before. The tip of her forefinger scratches quietly along the surface of the desk for something to occupy her hands with. "I, Peter, am perhaps the most." 

  


The man reluctantly peels the hands away from his countenance to blink owlishly at the woman, the sight of her on his desk like that may have ignited a differing response from him had he been in the mood. Instead he just hunches his shoulders forward, leaning his elbows upon his knees, reverting his gaze back toward the plain steel floor of the Milano. 

  


"Well you don't have to worry. As you can see, I'm fine. Great, even." insists the brunet, though the tone of his voice vehemently betrays him; no one that was okay would sound so wounded and lifeless.

  


Emerald fists clench unbearably tight at her sides upon the desk, so much so that crescents form in the skin of her palms. She resists the urge to hiss aloud, but patience wasn't one of her strong suits, especially now that Groot was blossoming into a petulant teenager. So instead of snapping, as easy as it would be, she instead pinches the bridge of her nose. Reacting so negatively would break whatever unspoken bond the two had managed to form, and she would be having none of that; not when she had came so close to having a—a something, something that maybe didn't possess a name.

  


So she releases the fist her hands had formed, though the crescents still remain and pulse. Breathing in through her nose manages to calm her demeanor and she releases it in a form of a sigh. People had never been her forte, never something she was good at considering her upbringing, but she would try. For Peter she would try, just as she had with Nebula, who would always be her sister regardless of how often they were at each other's throats.

  


Rising from the desk, the sound of her heavy boots thud against the steel floor, pausing when they reach Peter. Gamora detests the thought of how filthy his floor must be, but sinks down onto her knees regardless. Her hands hover awkwardly by her side as he gazes up into those glassy, jade eyes and he stares back with an equal intensity. His hands are still cusp before him, though he lessens the grip he has on them, opening them up into the direction of the latter's.

  


Gamora maintains steady eye contact, can feel the sense of static vibrating between them, as she raises her hands for them to be taken by Peter. His hands are unbearably warm compared to her cooler one's, almost instantly bathing her form in his heat. They had touched hands once before while they were dancing, but it hadn't been like this; she assumes that there was some sort of lingering power flowing through his veins, sending electric shocks throughout her body. Or maybe that was just the effect of Peter alone. 

  


"Peter, listen." Peter nods silently, looking down at her with a melancholy smile. "I know what it is like to lose everything, as I have as well." This was a subject she didn't dare touch let alone speak about aloud, but here she was. "Losing your parent's is perhaps the worst of the worst that one can experience, but you will move forward and become much stronger than you are now."

  


"Pretty hard to believe since I feel like complete and utter shit right now, like I just got brutally ran over by the Milano five times over and flattened into a pancake," murmurs a disgruntled Peter, who threads their fingers together and disentangles them only to do it once more. 

  


He repeats this action multiple times, frown still framing his chapped lips. Gamora can't resist the quaint smile that twitches upon her lips despite the seriousness of the situation. The remark was so purely Peter that she honestly couldn't restrain herself. "Well I happen to be fond of this pancake," states the ombre-haired woman, testing the word upon her tongue. "Pancakes are those things that you make for breakfast, yes?" Peter nods weakly, eyeing her curiously. "Perhaps you are feeling flat now, but later you will rise and we will all be there to witness it." 

  


"Are you—Wait a minute. I'm sorry, but did you just compare how I feel to a pancake?" incredulously questions Peter, who attempts to restrain the chuckle the spouts from his mouth. 

  


Gamora nods slowly, solemnly, as she copies the movement of Peter's fingers from before. She threads their fingers together and releases them, repeats it, then offers his hands a firm squeeze. "I suppose I am.." trails off the former-assassin, lips twitching upward into a genuine smile. "I believe you're rubbing off on me in strange ways, Peter Quill." 

  


"I'm trying to wallow in self-pity here, y'know." Peter murmurs defensively, though he smiles as well. He withdraws one hand and raises it up to trace tiny circles onto Gamora's cheek with the very tips of his fingers, and he swears he feels a familiar prick of electricity when his skin meets hers. "Isn't the first time I've heard those words though." 

  


" _Peter_ ," hisses the woman who grabs stiffly onto his wrist, squeezing it.

  


"Ah—ah, okay, shit. I was just kidding, you made it so easy—Stop, ow." 

  


Gamora releases his wrist a second later, however, and allows him to continue stroking her cheek. His fingers are just so warm and welcoming and she revels in the sensation of how good it feels. Unconsciously she leans into the touch, eyes fluttering to a close, smiling contently to herself. "Soon this sorrow will pass and I will see you smiling once more, and I want nothing more than that." 

  


Audibly, the man gulps, as he stutters in the movements against her cheek. Instead he cradles her cheek and allows the pad of his thumb to brush along one silver scar in particular, gingerly gliding over the delicate skin. "Didn't know it meant that much to you," breathes the man as he hesitantly leans forward, head tilting as he does so.

  


Gamora watches his movements intently, noting how his cheeks seem to flush a deep scarlet and how his lashes begin to flutter. How the thumb caressing her cheek seizes and instead grips her jaw in a gentle hold, lips parting ever-so-slightly. But he stops, inches before their lips connect, and she feels the anticipation rising to an almost unbearable level.

  


"Peter..." breathes the woman once more, onyx lips parting to speak once more, only for her lips to be captured in a kiss that leaves her gasping sharply.

  


It takes her by sheer surprise, even if she had been anticipating it. That electricity seemed to heighten once his lips met hers and if her eyes were still open, she was certain she would have seen the sight of sparks erupting between their connected mouths. Another hand joins the current one on her jaw and Peter focuses on parting her lips with his own, tongue caressing the seam, before Gamora allows him access.

  


And he makes it a point to memorize every inch and contour that his tongue is capable of mapping out, rolling his tongue to press against hers, then withdrawing ever-so-slightly to nibble eagerly at her lower lip. She grunts appreciatively at the gentle pressure it brings, which rapidly shifts into a low growl when he tugs it between his perfect row of ivory teeth.

  


" _Peter_ ," she hums once more as she feels warm hands abandoning her face in favor of grappling for her sides to tug her to her feet and into his lap.

  


Peter is only slightly embarrassed by the tightness that bunches up the fabric of his gray sweatpants, and he knows the exact moment the woman notices it by the way her eyes widen when she shifts within his lap. Hands attach to her bottom, supporting her so she doesn't fall even an inch out of his lap, jade eyes alight and burning with an unhinged passion—Gamora is certain it had always been there, she just didn't desire acknowledging it at the time.

  


Once more she adjusts within his lap, hands attaching to his shoulders to gather her bearings, fingers gripping tightly onto the firm muscle there. "Are you certain this is what you want?" Bits of her insecurity make an appearance as she poses the question, to which Peter blinks incredulously at, whining low in his throat.

  


"You're telling me that you don't feel—Gamora, look: I've wanted this since—" He pauses abruptly after almost spilling one of his most cherished secrets. "I have literally dreamed about this moment since the moment you kicked my ass, and you're asking me if I want this.. If I want you..?"

  


She looks timid, reserved even, as she laces her fingers together behind Peter's back. She offers him a thoughtful look, prompting him for a response. "It's best to be certain, I just didn't wish to do this and have either of us wake up the next morning with regret because we were lost in the passion of the moment."

  


Peter doesn't answer at first, just stares at her; how the silver of her scars seemed to glimmer in the soft glow of light, how her dark eyes are open with emotion, how her onyx-painted lips appear to be trembling. Instead of responding with words, he decides to kiss her once more, tugging her close against his broad chest. His hands cover the globes of her bottom delicately, gently moving her closer into the contours of her body, revels in the way he can feel her heat through even layers of fabric.

  


She melts effortlessly into the kiss and presses strong hands against Peter's chest, sending his form spiraling backward onto the plush softness of the comforters. He blinks his surprise, staring up at her almost as if he's in awe—and truly, he is. He watches as her slender fingers reach for the zipper that laces her lace outfit together, tugging it slowly down, before brushing away the leather straps. 

  


The ensemble falls to pool around her waist and exposes her smooth, emerald flesh. Her chest is laced with silver marks here and there, scattered across her skin, but Peter doesn't care. In fact, he finds himself reaching forward to trace along one particularly long, deep one that spreads across the expanse of her taut abdomen. She appears perplexed by the movement at first, having to glance down to peer at what he's doing, before she captures his wrist with a fierce sharpness.

  


"Don't." 

  


Peter finds himself pouting as he wriggles free of her grip, he instead focuses on smoothing his hands up and down the length of her sides. "If they're apart of you, then they're beautiful too. Every part of you is beautiful, whether you wanna believe it or not." He pauses, wets his chapped lips, and pauses the movements of his hands to rest at her hips. "I mean, you're the woman of my dreams. Literally." 

  


She snorts in response, rolling her eyes promptly, as she occupies her hands with tugging up the thin fabric that shields Peter's chest from view. "Sounds like a nightmare," offhandedly comments the woman as she coins the man a look, silently asking for assistance.

  


He arches slightly off the bed to help with the removal of his shirt, which she throws halfheartedly onto the floor, to which he pouts at. "Aw, c'mon."

  


"Your room is filthy, Peter Quill." murmurs the woman with a gentle laugh, steeling him with a playful scowl. "You have yet to do your laundry, so I am certain the shirt is in good company." 

  


Peter sticks his tongue out childishly, teasingly, and the woman quirks him an amused smirk. Her hands splay flat against the plane of his abdomen, feeling the muscles twitch beneath her administrations. Fingers travel along his prominent abdominal muscles, fingers drawing small spirals onto the hot skin, before traveling downward toward where the tent in his sweatpants is located.

  


"Hey, be careful." Gamora quirks an inquisitive brow in response, hand hovering just above where his cock is located. "I've got an anaconda down there, don't want ya' to hurt yourself." 

  


Gamora rolls her eyes, not even certain how she should respond to such a preposterous statement, and instead slides a hand beneath the band of his sweatpants. What she finds beneath the thin fabric is bare, heated skin that reacts to the coolness of her hand almost instantaneously. Peter hisses through clenched teeth, hips bucking instinctively toward her hand, desperate for the slightest of friction. He looks pointedly at her face, memorizing the smug smirk that paints her lips, and how a mischievous glint seems to lighten her dark eyes.

  


It's then that a cool hand surrounds his heated cock, wrapping firmly around it and offering a warm squeeze. It leaves Peter's toes curling inward, the man choking out a groan at the sensation. It feels like nothing else he had ever experienced, similar to the way he feels about the woman currently bringing him pleasure in the form of a hand slowly stroking his cock.

  


Her thumb brushes gingerly across the head of his cock, smearing the already dribbling pre-cum that forms there along the length of him. And, impressively enough, he is quite large and her hand doesn't quite wrap around the thickness of him. She doesn't mind, however, as she adjusts once more to abandon his lap in favor of sitting beside him. Dark eyes flicker toward his face, finding his eyes mapping her body like he would the galaxy, feels a familiar warmth pulsating in her belly and down below the leather that still covers her form.

  


"Gamora," breathes the man, eyes blown wide as he looks at her. " _Please_ ," he squeaks.

  


It transforms into an outstretched moan as her mouth surrounds him in tight, wet heat. He propped himself up on his elbows, intent on watching her every movement, clearly transfixed with the administrations. Her tongue curiously glides along the underside of cock, caressing the skin gently, gliding along until she reaches the head once more. There, she licks experimentally, eyes peering up to gauge the latter's reaction.

  


And if the way he practically salivates is anything to go by, she must be doing a decent job. So she continues, lips wrapping snugly around the head of his cock, sucking ever-so-slightly upon the sensitive flesh there. He gasps loudly, hips bucking once more, hand going to the back of her head to caress her velvet-soft locks.

  


"You're so good, Mora.. _Fuck_.." Peter hisses through clenched teeth, restraining from tugging at her hair and allowing her to move at her own pace. "Better than I imagined, shit.. Better than any wet dream, I swear.." 

  


Gamora snorts at thought, the vibrations sending shrills of electricity through Peter's cock. He grunts once more and nearly chokes on a moan when she easily swallows him down. The hand at the back of her head tightens instinctively, but he still doesn't make to control her movements. Just lays there, revels in how her head bobs at a steady pace, her nimble fingers caressing his thighs.

  


"Not gonna last, fuck.. Too soon, too soon... Time out."

  


She hums in response and refuses to let up, instead sucking earnestly and full of intent now. She revels in the fingers massaging at her scalp, tightening every once in a while. It only spurs her, however, as she is concentrating on the flick of her tongue and on tightening her mouth almost unbearably around the wide, thick girth of him. She desires nothing more than to taste his bitter essence, wants to soothe him through ecstasy.

  


And she doesn't have to wait long, no, because soon Peter is unable to contain the tell-tale clench of his stomach nor the orgasmic sensations that ripple throughout his form. Fingers clench tightly upon her hair as he grunts, releasing in thick spurts, as his chest rapidly rises and falls to the rhythm of his heart palpitations. Gamora doesn't relent, however, even after the galaxies explode behind his closed lids slowly dissipate into nothing but a black sky.

  


She finally stops when she's satisfied, swallowing him down and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I assume you're pleased, yes?"

  


Peter breathlessly chuckles at that, reaching blindly for one of her hands. "Uh, fuck yeah. You rocked my world and blew my brains out just then." 

  


Her nose crinkles in disdain from the visual image, but smirks smugly nonetheless as she climbs back into his lap and pins his hands above his head without much fight. His boneless body would allow just about anything right now as he lays sated beneath her form, eyes clouded and hazy as he stares wistfully up at her. 

  


"S'my turn." murmurs Peter drowsily, a dopey grin plastering across his lips. "I wanna show you this thing I can do with my tongue," he explains as he abruptly pokes his tongue out, making a peculiar shape out of it. "Just imagine that big ol' thing right here down there, huh?" He wiggles his brows playfully but Gamora is shaking her head.

  


"That's all for now," she breathes with a satisfied smile as he releases his hands. "For now, you need to replenish your strength. It _has_ been a long day, after all. Perhaps we can pick up in the morning when you're not close to passing out." she states matter-of-factually as Peter's eyelids flutter sleepily until finally closing completely, that dopey grin still in place. "I should return to my own quarters before the others get any ideas—"

  


"No, wait." Peter encircles her wrist to prevent her from leaving, "I don't want you to go. Just, uh, stay. With me... _Please_?"

  


And she does, she stays because she wasn't certain she could even muster up the strength to leave herself. Because there was nowhere else she would rather be than there in Peter's bunk, huddled close to his side and encased in his warmth as he regales the stories Gamora had always adored listening to. Because Gamora was certain then that home was there with none other than Peter Quill, the galaxies self-proclaimed Star-Lord.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know how I did, yeah? I kinda wanted to paint Gamora as Peter's light through the darkness, and how even as sad as he feels, he comes to life just being around her. I hope I showed that accurately enough? :p x


End file.
